Viner Hand
by SousaSpectacular
Summary: In a unfortunate series of events Fay Warvel accidentally breaks into in a manner of speaking 221B Baker St. She can only hope the owners will be forgiving, and possibly helpful, considering the circumstances. Possibly Holmes/OC or Watson/OC .
1. Chapter 1

So this is my first venture into the world of Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately I've only seen the movie, though I have gone out to buy the first book and I've gotten a few chapters in. I'm not entirely sure where I plan on going with this (romance, adventure, whatever) but I do hope to see it through till the end, though I'm not sure you should expect frequent updates. We'll see. Anyways, hope you enjoy. Please review! :)

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In a terrible turn of fate Fay Warvel was the only senior in her college who was not assigned all the classes she needed to graduate. As an architectural major Fay was required to complete four calculus courses in four years; something that she had dismissed as easy enough until this year. The night before Fay was supposed to log onto the school's website and sign up for the courses she needed there was a vicious snow storm. Over three feet of snow fell in less than twelve hours and by the time Fay woke the next morning both her phone and internet were out. Driving was not an option either and as such Fay had to resign herself to ending up with only the left over classes and calculus, of course, was not included.

This brought Fay to the present in which, unlike the rest of her graduating class, she was in the library on campus with a graphing calculator, notebook and text book open on the table in front of her in the middle of June. She sat impatiently at the table, jiggling one foot which was on the ground while the other was tucked underneath her. She tapped her pencil on the lined paper in agitation, distracted by the immensely irritating text of the book which was in something called Viner Hand. Each time she looked down at the page Fay couldn't help but immaturely thing that whoever created the font was definitely a real Veener. With a long suffering sigh, that even Fay could admit was unnecessary, she snapped shut the text book and lay her head on her arms, wishing for coffee.

Despite Fay's current attitude she loved calculus. It was easy for her. Simply inserting numbers into formulas and plugging and chugging had never been too significant of a challenge and so she normally did calculus work to relax. The mind numbing process was far better at taking her mind off of other classes and problems than doing most other things and so she, humiliatingly enough, took to keeping her old calculus text books next to her bedside so that when she was having trouble falling to sleep she could open it and find derivatives and integrals until she drifted off. But even more than calculus Fay loved architecture.

She loved to borrow books from the library on Rome or France or England and admire the churches and towers and buildings and homes. More than anything Fay wanted to move to Europe and discover the architectural treasures of those countries herself. She could imagine sitting at a distance from L'Arc de Triomphe and sketching and designing her own monuments. She could see herself walking the Thames in London and taking pictures of the fantastic skyline and the Tower Bridge. She could see it in her mind. But that appeared to be, at least for the near future, as close as she could get. Moving would cost her far more money than she could even pretend to have, especially due to the fact that she had not technically graduated yet.

Fay sighed again, sat up and began packing up her things to go back to her apartment. As she snapped shut her messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder, while mean while thrusting on a baseball cap with her other hand Fay felt resigned to her continued, uninteresting existence.

Fay unlocked the door to her apartment and walked in, dropping purse, keys and bag by the door. Green flip flops thunked against the wall as she chucked them off with vehemence. With now bare feet Fay padded on linoleum floor past the brightly lit living room into the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle from her refrigerator. From the next room the voice of her best, but superficial, friend and roommate Rush called over the sound of a blow dryer, "Fay?"

Fay leaned her forehead against the cool fridge door; blond bangs flattened and impressed themselves into her skin, "Yeah?" There was no response.

Louder now Rush yelled, "Fay!?"

"Yeah!?" The blow-dryer stopped.

"You're home?"

Fay tilted her head backwards slowly and then quickly brought it forward again with a satisfying thunk, "Yep."

"Oh, okay!" The blow-dryer turned back on and Fay rolled her eyes and stood up straight and backed away from the fridge. Going to a cabinet close by she grabbed a personal-size bag of salt and vinegar chips and went into the living room. She jumped onto the couch and stretched out. She opened her water bottle, took a sip, opened the bag of chips and took a handful and lay back against the cushions with relief. After staying still for several minutes in silence aside from the muffled sound of the blow-dryer and munching of chips, Fay reached onto the coffee table and grabbed a slim, hard covered book which lay there. From many years use the words on the cover had worn away and only a sprinkling of gold was left embedded into the brown cover: A Study in Scarlett.

With the simple and cheerful anticipation Fay always had when reading an old favorite, she leaned back with the novella and opened to the first page.

_In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London, and proceeded to Netley to go through…_

When Fay woke the next morning she didn't open her eyes right away. The smells of fried eggs and the clinking sounds of cutlery and bustling in the kitchen invaded Fay's consciousness with so little ado that her brain didn't even process them as a surprise, though the last time she had awoken to such things she was probably fifteen and staying at her grandmother's house. Soon her eyes fluttered open and it was upon doing so that Fay way initially startled. Instead of the high, white, bumped ceiling of her apartment with Rush, she was met with a smooth ceiling of a cream color. She sat up immediately and was taken aback to hear the small squeal of stretched leather. She looked down to the couch and saw brown leather and then up and around and back and down and in every corner of the room and quite quickly came to the assumption that this was not her living room at all.

Seized with the adrenaline of panic Fay turned to the wall she had seen with a door and made her way towards it, still noticing minute details as she scrambled around furniture. The clock on the wall read nine o'clock. The carpet was burgundy and worn in places. A string instrument's bow and resin sat on the seat of a green chair but there wasn't an instrument in sight. The wood of the door had several small cracks expanding out from the center. There were two empty tea cups on a silver tray. The painting on the right was slightly tilted to the left. There was a dark smudge of oily fingers on the patterned wallpaper. Small details came to Fay so quickly that behind her eyes thrummed with pain similar to that she sometimes had if she read tiny print without a good light. The table next to the door was covered with open books and yellowed newspapers. The print though averagely sized and across the room, seemed to magnify itself and phrases and she could make out sentences and words without conscious effort. _Mr. and Mrs. Smith welcome their first daughter—Newton's first law has been accepted as—It's possible that Mr. Andrews was imagining things but_— Somehow Fay had stopped moving. She stood in the center of the room, eyes closed with hands at her temples massaging the pressure that had suddenly mounted there.

Through the pain that radiated in her skull Fay could hear the creaking of wood floors beyond the door and anticipated the opening of the door into the room, likely to be followed by a scream and a call to the police. Her heartbeat increased exponentially and yet Fay could do nothing but not move. The sound of rusted hinges altered Fay to the person's entrance and a split second later a male spoke, "Mary? What are you doing here? Where—What—What are you wearing?"

Normally Fay admired the nasal tones of a British accent, but not today. She moved her hands from her temples, where they were shading her face, to her ears, in an effort to block out the man's voice. Though Fay kept her eyes sealed she heard him take in a rapid breath, and she knew he'd come to the realization that she, in fact, was not Mary. Momentarily the sound of the creaking floor boards snuck between her fingers to her ear drums and she knew the man had left. With hope that the man had left, Fay lowered her hands and opened her eyes.

As she did so, the pounding in her head increased marginally, but she did not reverse her actions. Fay focused her mind to just the feel of the roughness of carpet on her feet and the cool air on her skin and the head ache faded enough for her to exhale a huge breath in relief. She began thinking hard.

Images of the bric-a-brac objects and oddly Victorian furniture and styles of the room played in her mind's eye in addition to the ringing questions of the obviously English man. Not daring to theorize Fay avoided these thoughts. _Must leave quickly. He'll be back. Same door? No, he'll be outside it. Other options? The fire place? _Her train of thought paused for a moment. _Ineffective. So, door?_

Swiftly she strode across the room, avoiding stepping on a bear rug, and opened the door quietly, hoping the hinges' noise wouldn't alert the man who had left, or anyone else for that matter. Fay stuck her head into the hallway, noting a Maplewood floor, bare walls and several similar looking doors going in both directions. To her left there was a stairwell. Fay was wary of the creaking wood, but without any means of avoiding it she stepped fully out into the hallway, simply hoping for the best. Fay shuffled her feet instead of taking long strides, hoping that it would muffle any noise that her body weight would make, but in doing so her Capri's rubbed together and the sound of the jean seemed to echo in the low ceilinged highway. Ignoring this she continued to the stairwell.

Slowly she placed on foot on the first step of the stairs and when she found it did not make a noise she quickly began descending without further hesitation. The room the stairs led to appeared to be a sort of rear entry room and from her stance she couldn't perceive anyone about. Nonetheless she moved stealthily to the door and reached for the gold door handle. Unfortunately when her shaking fingers finally grasped the cool metal the crisp voice from earlier rang out from behind her, "Freeze."


	2. Chapter 2

A second chapter! Yay! Thank you to those who reviewed! I appreciate it!

One quick note I want to make is that I did notice that how Fay behaves and speaks changes from a fairly modern girl to almost like someone from the Victorian era. This was not intentional but I had a really hard time trying not to do that and I don't think it worked very well, so excuse the inconsistency!

Anyway, carry on!

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Fay froze with her hand wrapped around the door knob. She was so close to escaping! How easy it would be to simply flick her wrist to the side, pull the door open and run till this house was far, far behind her.

"Turn around, please."

Fay acquiesced, relinquishing the knob. As she turned to face her accuser her aspect was of obvious anxiety; trembling hands, a puckered brow, flushed skin; but when she saw the man who belonged to the voice she had been inadvertently communicating with her skin reversed colors and was immediately white. The figure before Fay was striking. He was tall man of an average build, but with a posture that spoke of confidence. His shoulders, clad in a close fitting blue button-down shirt beneath a waistcoat in a deeper color, were wide. The left shoulder lead down a long arm to a hand holding a revolver pointed unwaveringly towards Fay. This was hardly what frightened Fay so deeply. Instead the man's face caused her such an abrupt and disturbing insight based on the facts she had so gathered so far that she felt at once near passing out. His face was serious and dark, but handsome. His jaw was strong and peppered with a light layer of hairs. Firmly shut, the mouth of the man was set in disapproval and his neatly clipped mustache twitched every so often. Above this dark brows were angled downward, covering eyes which were steady on hers, betraying nothing. He was Jude Law. Or rather, Jude Law as Dr. John H. Watson.

Swiftly following this insight came the realization that she was not simply not in her _own_ humble abode, or in the home of a stranger, but in that of a fictional character that lived in the 1800's. Fay quickly dismissed the likelihood of being in a dream as she never had any so vivid or lucid, and while it were possible that this were a hallucination the nuances of the décor and smells and sounds she heard were simply too—too embellished for her brain to have come up with itself. Having decided on these two things and no other possibilities occurred to her she become closer and closer to accepting that this situation, as ridiculous as it may seem, were real.

Interrupting her thoughts Dr. Watson asked, "Who are you? What are you doing in my household?"

A combination of sheer astonishment and incomprehension kept Fay from coming up with any sort of clever explanation to give to how and why she were in the house and she was rather at a loss for words. She bit her lip and tried to quickly come up with a sufficient reply, but could only manage the truth, "My name is Fay Warvel," she replied, "and I—well, I'm not sure how I came to be in your house."

Dr. Watson's wrinkled brow flattened out in surprise, "You say you're not sure? How can that be? I found you quite alone and awake in the sitting room just minutes ago and I have to make the assumption that my flat mate did not kidnap you and put you there as he has not been home for several days."

Lamely Fay began, "I know it seems unlikely and very much like I'm lying, especially because I can't even ask you to let me explain, but _please_ trust me," Watson seemed to be wavering in the face of her sincerity. Inwardly Fay admired how Doyle had so beautifully captured his character's gentlemanly air, the man was just as depicted in the books. "What sort of devious activity could I have been up to with no shoes?" She pointed out.

Watson looked at her bare feet and frowned but lowered his gun.

Watson looked at her feet and frowned but lowered his gun. Fay sighed in relief, "I understand that this is very suspicious and I'm truly sorry…I could just leave now and you won't ever have to suffer any similar incidents from me." She made to reach for the door knob once again but he threw up a hand in the universal signal for wait.

"Yes, well, your lack of foot wear is regrettable, but…"He looked apologetic as he spoke now, "I want to believe you…Miss Warvel, but I'm finding it difficult to do so." Watson broke eye contact with her to look down at his wristwatch and brushed some imaginary lint off of the sleeve of his shirt. Fay ascertained from these movements that while he might not believe that she wasn't about to rob him blind, he did not think she would suddenly turn violent. "It's not unheard of for—for women of the, uh, evening to try to pull off a small scale robbery." Immediately realization what conclusion he had come to about her, she crossed her arms across her chest protectively and blushed deeply, but didn't protest because she had no words to adequately explain. Fay, because of the heat of the summer months, even inside the university's library, was dressed in light clothing. Instead of the long, covering dresses which Watson was evidently used to, Fay wore faded blue jean Capri's with newly patched holes in both knees and a thin-strap tank top with a blue flower pattern. "Therefore I am going to wait for a second opinion."

At those words Fay's heart which had nearly calmed to a normal rate began pumping blood furiously through her veins. _Surely he didn't mean…_ "Ahh, wuh-well, who's opinion are you hoping to ask? I'd venture to say that there isn't anyone else about or they would have shown up in the excitement."

His next statement was probably not ask ambiguous as he wished it to be, "My flat mate." Dr. Watson's lips twisted into a proud, but small smile, "If anyone might be able to tell if you're a liar, it would be him."

_He did mean…His flat mate. Sherlock Holmes. _"When will he be home? Didn't you mention he has not been here for several days?" _Three days_, her brain supplied, _Likely on another case…Though if that were true wouldn't Watson have gone along with him? Possibly. Probably. He could be visiting his brother…_

"Yes, well, he will be home later on today," the doctor said, but did not sound convinced.

"What are you going to do in the mean time? Where am I going to be?"

"Yes, Watson, where are you going to stuff an averagely sized young woman for several hours? I would be quite interested to hear how you're planning to keep her willingly. Perhaps you intend to use restraints. I do have a length of rope around if you're in need."

Fay snapped her head towards the gravelly voice, both anticipation and dread dictating her actions. The man standing to her right was tall; taller than Fay and nearly as tall as Watson. From feet clad in leather shoes, to legs encased in gray tweed, to a solid torso in a fitted waistcoat, to a neck gently wrapped in silk, to a glorified head covered with disheveled dark hair, Sherlock Holmes cut an impressive figure. His face was unemotional and Fay was unable to deduce whether or not he were facetious or simply scornful. She turned to Watson to determine whether _he_ knew, but aside from a gently twitching mustache, something she could only assume was from restraining a smile, Watson gave no indication that he had heard Holmes' words at all.

Always the gentleman, Watson strode forward to stand between herself and Holmes and introducing the pair. "Miss Warvel, this is my companion, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, this is Miss Fay Warvel." Fay tentatively stuck out her hand, but Holmes ignored it and continued to look at Watson.

"Watson, I have no interest in _who_ she is,_ merely_ what she is doing here," Holmes pointedly turned his intent gaze toward Fay's large amounts of bare flesh, "I would presume that she were here for your _pleasure_, except for your distinctly disgruntled aspect, the revolver in your hand and the fact that you needed to _store_ her somewhere. Perhaps she's another charity case you have picked up on the way home." Still looking at Fay, Holmes' eyes scored up and down her body and clothing. Distinctly uncomfortable with his scrutiny Fay shifted from barefoot to barefoot. "And yet that is also not the case. Her hair is far too clean and healthy, teeth too straight and white, skin healthy, nails neatly clipped and painted, etcetera, ad nauseum." He spoke without interest as though reading a long list of insignificant figures and the longer he did so the more and more belittled Fay felt.

Watson noticed her shrinking posture for what it was and quickly cut Holmes off from continuing in his analysis, "That's enough, Holmes." He growled.

Holmes quirked a raven brow toward Watson, "Always the gentlemen, old boy? Even in the presence of a thief?"

Suddenly Fay couldn't help but speak up, "I'm not a thief. And I hardly think my appearance right now can tell you anything different."

Both the men, who had apparently written her off as an inactive party in this entire altercation, looked to her with momentary interest. "I was led to believe you were a thief by the actions of Watson, not by your appearance. But your statement that your appearance does not speak to that possibility is _quite_ wrong."

Fay rankled at his arrogance, "Indeed? Do go on." Watson stood to the side smiling wryly.

Holmes gave her a sour look, pursing his lips and narrowing his eyes before he spoke, "Your pants are torn and they were obviously made for someone of a much smaller stature, yet your shirt seems to be a sort of chemise or undershirt, which can only mean that you could not afford clothes and so had these handed down to you. As for the shirt you likely came by it by similar means as you are getting Watson to… _sympathize_ with you," Fay's jaw nearly dropped here at his rudeness, "Also, if I may," he indicated her hand which had several simple, but silver, rings and she lifted it toward him hesitantly. He, with an unforeseen gentle touch, grasped her fingers and tugged off one of the rings, "You have a couple definitely expensive rings, but no pale mark where they were, suggesting that they are new. But," he lifted the ring he had removed to eye level, "this is scratched and worn in several places indicating that it has had a previous owner; not you." Smug, Holmes took her hand in his again and softly slid the ring back onto her finger, "Should I continue?"

Fay replied, "There's no need. You were wrong on all counts."

Holmes' brow wrinkled in consternation, "I cannot be wrong. I took the facts presented and arranged them in an order which in turn speaks of your actions. Ergo, you must be a thief."

Fay smiled wryly. "Why are you troubled by her denial? She must be lying…" wondered Watson.

Holmes looked at Watson, "Yes, you're right; she must be lying for there is no other logical solution…Yet her aspect as she spoke exhibited no observable signs of doing so. Her eyes kept steady contact with mine and the muscles in her face only moved when they would while telling the truth." Holmes ran a hand through his hair, causing the black to stick up at odd angles, "If the possible is implausible there is simply the impossible left, which means that—" Holmes' brown iris' bored into Fay's grey, "—you're telling the truth, but not all of it."

Fay simply smiled and said, "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."


End file.
